Go Croc Yourself

I decided to start with this VERY controversial fashion piece for a myriad of reasons. One of my good friends hates Crocs so vehemently that she won’t touch them. I truly believe they make her physically ill. I think footwear that repulses someone that much really deserves a closer look. So I’ll start from the beginning. The first time I was introduced to Crocs (advertised as foot ergonomic, anti-microbial aka stank resistant, extremely comfortable, available in veritable rainbow of colors) was strange because they were the knock-off Payless Brand. One of my college roommates got a pair to wear around the dorm. I tried them on several times and found them to be like walking on that Nickelodeon Floam shit that my mom refused to buy me back in the 90’s. To me they looked like a bloated garden clog with holes to drain out sweat…or whatever other liquid your feet may happen to produce. I really had no qualms about them because I thought they were, for lack of a better term, what my grandma used to call “houseshoes.” You wear them around to do chores, maybe out in the garden, and to do various other household activities I generally avoid. I’d also heard that they were popular amongst medical staff because if you got blood or shit or vomit on them you could just spray them off. Nice thought.

I really didn’t think much about the real Crocs (which I saw soon after) or the knock-offs. I went to a relatively fashion-obsessed university (much, much more on that later) and they weren’t really cropping up. But during the summer of 04 my whole footwear world turned upside down. I visited France with a school group, tour-ish thing. *Side note: My four word sage advice on one of those all inclusive tour packages: DON’T FUCKING DO IT. Unless you too want to be involved in high school drama/whining and be drug kicking and screaming to every castle in Northern France without a piss break. The best part of our trip was dining, drinking, and dancing to techno at a winery. But even then they didn’t supply us with enough wine to do any damage. I know I probably sound like a spoiled little bitch right now. But for as much as I paid for the trip…I frankly expected a little more independence. But whatever. Moving on* Apparently, flip-flops are not really a casual footwear staple in France. So when we wore them our tour guide Claudio said “Dey all know dat you ahre A-mEHR-icans.” In our defense we were wearing very nice flips which verged on dressy sandal… whateves. We were fashion douche bags…dually noted. But after being berated for what I was wearing, I was HORRIFIED to see that one faction of our group, some very nice folk from Missourah (their pronunciation…not mine), were wearing fuckin’ Crocs. In fuckin’ Paris, France. These things, which I’d convinced myself to be houseshoes, were being worn in public. And not just any old public…Paris, fucking France…the capital of fashion and European-ness. And to make it worse, they wore them with white socks. Yeah…I’ll let you think about that for awhile. Get it good and ingrained in your memory.

This moment in time was the beginning of my hatred of Crocs. Like I said before…I could honestly care less if you are in the medical profession or are at home/in a botanical garden while wearing them. That’s an acceptable time and place. And if you are a child and you want to collect the little charm things to put in the sweat holes…be my guest. I wore jellies once upon a time so who am I to judge a kid who likes brightly colored plastic footwear. But honestly, if you are above 10 just give it up. I understand that they are comfortable, but so are sports bras and you don’t see me wearing those all over creation do you? I also hear that they are anti-microbial but let me tell you something. I’ve funked up my share of shoes by not wearing socks with them, my bad. But you know what, I did the honorable thing and threw them away. I didn’t elect to buy the shoe equivalent of an animal pen, and when things got a little murky, just spray them off with a high pressure hose.

In researching Crocs (yes I actually do research when I write this blog) I found that there are many sites whose sole mission (haha…sole mission) is to bad-mouth these shoes. Apparently too, the people who seek out these websites are Croc-lovers who leave messages like “Fuck u asshole…don’t u have ne thing better 2 do than bash Crocs? I <3>

But honestly let’s all have a heart to heart. I’ve pretty much made it clear when I feel Crocs are acceptable…and then in all other circumstances they make me kinda physically nauseous as well. If you like/love/want to give all your worldly possessions to the Crocs empire…that is fine. We live in America and along with the right to be fashion douche bags you have the right to your own opinion and the expression of that opinion. But so do I. And don’t be surprised if I (or my Crocs hatin’ friend) encounter you on the street and projectile vomit on your shoes. I’ll be kind and spray them off with a garden hose because…come on…that’s why you wear them right?

A big "I Don't" to Crocs

It’s been such a long time….it’s been such a loooong time

It has been quite awhile since I last posted on my blog. Blame it on my laziness (which is at astoundingly high levels as of late) or that the last month has been a drunken roller coaster of birthdays and spring break festivities. Whatever you choose to believe I am back and I will attempt to write more often because it really is a huge emotional and creative release for me. And because I hope you find my writing minutely entertaining (or at the very least not mind-numbingly dull), I’ll keep posting as many useless thoughts as I can muster.

I’ve decided that a new series of posts will revolve around fashion. This may seem like a curious direction for my blog to veer in, especially since previous posts have been decidedly more forcible in nature. Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon my penchant for foul language and snarky comments…these posts will concern fashion that I either hate, love, or am whole-heartedly confused about. And if you’re reading this and thinking “Girl…I’ve seen your closet. You aren’t an expert on fashion trends,” I invite you to shut the hell up and/or kiss my ass. Just kidding. But seriously plenty of people talk about things of which they have no clue (ex. Sarah Palin and foreign policy/geography/mainland America…just sayin’). So heretofore I will be the Sarah Palin of fashion. You can disagree with me and say my opinions are ludicrous, but honestly the last time I checked not THAT many people read my blog so I’m not going to be influencing the minds of the greater public.

Super Nanny

My most recent foray into the part-time working world involves three of my favorite past times: eating, drinking, and sleeping. Except that I don't really get to do any of those things. I facilitate those activities for a 4 month old. Its true...I am a nanny. (I guess what I really am is more of a baby sitter since it's only a few days a week...but nanny sounds cooler so I'm going with it k?)

I was asked by my cousin and her husband (news of my unemployment is hot gossip in my family) to watch their 4 month old baby a few times a week while they act like real grown ups and make money at their jobs. I jumped at the chance because a) It's consistent work at a decent salary, b) I could apply for jobs while the baby slept/bounced around in some random piece of baby entertainment furniture, and c) the baby is pretty freaking cute and not one of those monster infants. So far things have been going really well and the little lad (whom I've decided to call Stewie) and I get along swimmingly. But I have observed a few things which I find amusing.


-Babies should be spoken to like adults. Don't patronize them. If anyone saw the E*Trade baby commercial during the Super Bowl you'll know why I'm advocating this. In an effort to be entertained (and get him a commercial gig), I'm trying to teach Stewie to be a day trader with an adult vocubulary...so I always speak to him as though he were such. But don't worry...I watch my language. I don't want my little protegee to wreck his career with a sailor mouth like mine.


-Babies are complicated creatures who require complicated supplies. I can't remember being a baby...and I doubt you can either. But I have a sneaking suspicion our infancies were much simpler than a baby born in 2008. I have never in my life seen so many types of bottles, formulas, baby foods, diapers, and clothes. At one point during my first day on the job while making a bottle for little Stewie, I looked at him while measuring scoops of formula and said "Can you tell I have no idea what I'm doing ?" to which I'm positive I heard him mutter "Bitch please, mix my drink faster. I've got a nap and a crap to finish up by 3."


-Baby food/formula is revolting. I know that babies have a pretty easy life which is why I would like to be one again...but I have a lot of sympathy for them because their nourishment is absolutely gag-inducing. First, whoever invented formula was either a mad genius or a malicious asshole. I understand that it is great for babies because of the vitamins, etc. but it honestly tastes like rotten oatmeal-flavored chalkdust. And I cringe everytime I subject Stewie to it...although he doesn't seem to mind one bit. His reaction to formula and squash baby food is akin to mine with margaritas and loaded nachos: we both go ape-shit.


-Babies make me uber-cautious. I'll admit here and now that one day, yes I do want to be a mother (like after I get a job, home, husband, and Dyson vacuum cleaner). But practicing with Stewie has made me realize what kinds of things will change when I do have my own child. First of all, I'm will become a defensive driver instead of an offensive one (which I currently am). When Stewie rides in my car I find myself analyzing which roads would make for the safest route to our destination. And today I nearly shit myself when an 80 year old pulled out in front of me. Instead of my usual pissed off feelings of having to slow down for them I was geniunely scared and said "Heelllo!! I have a BABY in the car!!" (But remember...I didn't swear or use the finger because I'm teaching Stewie to be a gentleman).

Additionally, I'm really afraid I'm going to do something wrong to Stewie. I've nearly had a panic attack twice about the type and temperature of food I'm giving him (OMG...what if he's allergic to peas!) and was convinced that I was going to bruise him by burping him too hard. I also thought that I may have broken his femur while putting him into a onesie. In case you're wondering, I didn't.


Babies are funny...and you shouldn't lose your sense of humor around them. If there's one thing I've noticed...it's that Stewie cracks me up in the weirdest ways and I love him for it. Case in point: in one short day he spit an entire mouthful of (bleh!) squash baby food on me, he vomited without warning down my leg, and filled his diaper with the most horrendous toxic waste I have ever seen (I swear to God). But all I could do was laugh...and I don't know why.

I also had to keep my sense of humor today at the doctor's office with him. When we arrived the nurses asked me to take his clothes off so they could properly weight and measure and poke thermometers into him (more sympathy from me). So I did as I was told then waited maybe 2 minutes in the examining room with him. When I doctor came in he goes "Oh...you're the babysitter. Well my first bit of advice is that babies get cold very quickly and you need to have clothes on him." I dressed Stewie...again worrying that I was harming him. Then I soon realized this doctor was a certifiable nutjob asswipe because even after Stewie was in 3 layers the doctor continued to berate me for letting him get cold. When Stewie started to cry he said "See...he's cold." No dick...he's crying because you just jammed a tongue depressor down his throat that's why. And look...now he's sweating. Poor Stewie. I couldn't wait to get him out of there.

So, at any rate, lil' Stew and I are becoming fast friends and he always listens to my troubles with rapt attention. Someday (hopefully soon) when I procure full-time employment I'll look back with appreciation to that little guy and thank him for teaching me all he did...namely how to hold my breath for 3 straight minutes while changing a diaper.

GOP Granny

Today, because it is my grandma's 86th birthday, I dedicate this post to her. And since this post is about and in honor of my granny, I will whole-heartedly attempt to refrain from using the "colorful" language that so effortlessly imbues my writing. If she ever actually stumbled her way onto the internet and miraculously found this blog, I would hope she'd be proud of my restraint.

Before I actually start poking fun at the lady, I just want to say that I love her dearly. She's a spunky and spirited woman who has raised 5 children, one of those being my dad who (according to lore) was born backwards and upside down. Not cool Dad, not cool. She bakes a really swell (you'll notice I did not use the preferred adjective bad*ss) batch of sugar cookies and is fond of crafty projects. (She made me a needle point table runner last year for Christmas with prancing cats on it. I'll probably never in my life be caught using that thing, but I truly believe it is the thought that counts.) But most of all she's great because she really loves our family, and well, she's the last grandparent I have left.

With that caveat out of the way, I'll continue by saying that the lady is (God love her) a through and through Republican, and she'd love to familiarize you with the details if you ask. When I was younger I remember going to her house in the afternoon when she was listening to the Rush Limbaugh program on the radio while checking out CSPAN coverage. Then when cable news networks spread like the plague, Grandma began to experience a higher standard of political living in the form of the Fox News channel. She introduced me to Neil Cavuto, Sean Hannity, Brit Hume, Mort Kondrake and Fred Barnes (aka "The Beltway Boys") and that bastion of conservatism: Bill O'Reilly. She even videotaped Bill Clinton's impeachment trial and bought the Starr Report for a little light reading. She's waving her GOP freak flag for all to see and she's not a bit ashamed.

This all made it even more difficult when, at the age of 18, I decided to become a Democrat. Most of my family is (surprise, surprise) Republican, and views my political affiliation with a) bemused interest or b) all-knowing confidence that I will revert back to the righteous political path after I get all those liberal college ideas out of my head. I never actually spoke to my grandma about my political views until this election when I was politically "outed" by my dad. Not cool Dad, not cool. I volunteered for the Obama/Biden campaign (another time-filler in my days of unemployment) which my dad felt the need to bring up when we took Grandma out to dinner one night. I wanted to stab him with my "Yes We Can" pin. Grandma took it decently well and just said coldly, "That's nice." She was probably plotting how to lock me in her house with nothing but a book on Reaganomics and Sarah Palin's recorded thoughts on international relations, or worse, anything remotely related to Ann Coulter.

We didn't talk politics again until she brought up the inauguration at Christmas Dinner. She asked my sister and I if we planned on going to which I said "No Grandma, I'd like to, but I don't think I can afford to go." She laughed and said "Why don't you ask Oprah Winfrey to pick you up on the way from Chicago?" The whole family had a nice chuckle. "You know I really hope Obama (which she pronounces as oBAMa) and his family will be safe and happy in DC." I was slightly taken aback and my icy liberal heart warmed at her words. "And I hope he does everything he promised he would." Ok, Grandma. Stop while you're ahead. Please. "And that he doesn't drive us to socialism with all these government handouts. And let me tell you what I think about this situation in Iraq..." I just sighed. Oh well. I'll just tell people she's senile.

My Body Hates Me Part Deux: Ski Suicide

This is me...tearin' up the slopes!

It seems pretty obvious that my "My Body Hates Me" posts are going to have more sequels than the Saw series of movies (and no less bloody). But I might as well share these experiences, whether they be cautionary tales to my equally graceless bretheren or just fodder for jokes at my expense. Either way...I give you my latest bodily disaster.

This Martin Luther King Jr. Day weekend I went on a ski trip with some of my pals. The road trip to our slopes started off splendidly, including a stop at the most spectacular rest stop I've ever been to: The GoAsis. If you've never been...you better get your ass up to NE Ohio, Interstate 71, Ashland exit. And make sure you drink a huge coffee on the way so that you have to go to the bathroom when you get there. You won't be disappointed.

Our first order of business after crossing the PA line was to procure, as quickly as possible, a case of Yuengling, another beer that is so insignificant I forget its name, and a deck of Uno cards. After arriving at our kind and generous hosts’ home, the night went as most nights involving cards and alcohol do. I was also introduced to a game called Blockus. At first glance the box resembled one of those “educational games” that geometry teachers swear is “fun” yet will teach me so much about congruent angles. I was hesitant, but my friend’s brother was so unabashedly enthusiastic about it that I couldn’t help but give it a whirl. The game ended up being less educational and more vicious. I suppose the most I learned was how to insult my opponents using the word “Blockus.” (Example: “I’m going to Blockus your ass” or “Go Blockus yourself shithead”).

The next morning I awoke to find that even more snow had fallen in Erie and that the house was abuzz with excitement, mostly in the form of ski goggle and thermal underwear comparisons. I felt absolutely spectacular considering the amount of adult beverage I had consumed the night before…however I knew it would be short lived (more on that soon). After packing up and setting off we arrived at our ski destination of choice in New York. First of all, I imagined saying in my best Martha Stewart voice “Oh yes, my weekend was exquisite. I spent it on the slopes at this darling resort in New York. I made my entire group of friends these gorgeous scarves out Himalayan yak wool yarn.” After suiting up in our gear, which can be quite a feat in and of itself, we warmed up on the bunny hill. All went fabulously well. I exited the ski lift with great skill and made my way down the hill, stopping expertly. I was beginning to think that maybe I was too hard on myself in the coordination department. I WAS good at skiing and it was going to be a sweet trip. And I let myself believe this for another 3 hours or so. I rode up to higher and higher hills and flew down them without much trouble.

The first omen of doom came as I was trying to vacate the ski lift chair. I had been conversing with my seat mate when my ski caught on a bank of snow. I attempted to get up from my seat but I could feel myself making the turn to go back down on the lift. All I could think of was “Hell no…I am not going to suffer the humiliation of riding back down on this thing.” So I did what any sane person would… a Spiderman-like belly dive off the chair. I went face first into a pile of snow and, because I thought the lift was still going around, put my hands over my head in case one of the chairs slammed into the back of my skull. I was laughing so hard that my seat mate thought I was bawling and she crouched down thinking maybe I had broken my face or worse, my new ski goggles. Unbeknownst to me the operator had stopped the lift and some of my friends were still sitting on it, wondering what the hold-up was (they should have known it was me). “You have to stand up when you get to the top,” Mr. Lift Operator said. My first inclination was to give him the finger and shout “No shit Sherlock! Do you think I wanted to dive face-first into a pile of cold-ass snow?” But I just smiled timidly and said something to the effect of “Silly me!”

OMG...I need a break...

My Body Hates Me: Part Deux...uh Deux

Ok...this is more indicative of
my experience...happy??


I’m not sure if my confidence was crushed under my body weight in that spectacular fall or what, but after that my whole day was on a one way trip to Shitsville. I began wiping out at the end of every run and would wig out at the top of hills. My poor friends, God bless them, they tried to help but something was just not right with me (I should probably mention here that though it seems like this was my first go at skiing…I had skied prior to this trip…six times.) At first I was slowly getting the hang of skiing side to side to slow myself down. Now I just hurtled toward the finish line with disastrous results. One particularly messy finale involved one of my skis giving up and exploding off my boot, as I slid on my back at a break neck speed. I remember blinding cold, snow up my shirt, and seeing one of the resort signs and a fence coming at my face. At that moment I thought I would quite possibly crush my head into them, but all I remember thinking was that I really didn’t want to ruin the day for my friends by dying on them. But luckily I just ended up down in a ravine-type thing looking upwards as my friends peered down at me, alarmed. They had graciously picked up my wayward ski…but at that point I had no interest in any more snow fun. Adding insult to injury, I was struggling to crawl out of my makeshift grave. My feelings of disappointment and frustration culminated in rage as I eloquently said (pardon the language) “FUCK THIS SHIT,” and threw my ski and poles. I certainly didn’t want to give up because I like to beat the hell out of myself until I get something right…but I was so blinded by anger that I didn’t care anymore (especially because my friends seemed to be excelling at every turn and were destined for the 2010 Winter Olympics). All that would have made me feel better was a beer…but just at this moment my hang over set in. Yes, you heard me…my Yeungling/Blockus/Uno hangover. As if I needed any more evidence that my body hates me, I tend to get hangovers right after lunch, so there’s really no “sleeping it off” for me. So needless to say I couldn’t stomach any brews.



As the day wore on I asked my friends to please keep having fun without me because I just needed to warm up and dry my shirt which had literally frozen to my back (I’m not kidding, it was like zero degrees without the windchill). I think the most internally humiliating part of the day (besides trying to walk down stairs in ski boots) was sitting in the lodge watching six year olds ski down the black diamond hills. When it was finally time to go I felt and looked like one of those people search and rescue teams discover half frozen in an avalanche. And alarmingly the right side of my face was not responding very quickly to my brain’s commands. My friends laughed when I said I thought maybe I’d had a stroke, but I was really concerned that it was true after I said it.



So there, dear readers, is my latest story of bodily harm. If you think I couldn't possibly do anything more shameful in one short weekend you'd be so incredibly wrong. That night over a lovely dinner my hosts and friends informed me that I had gone sleepwalking the night before, apparently on an epic quest to discover the bathroom. Supposedly I checked to see if there was a toilet in a closet and each bedroom upstairs before discovering the actual bathroom. I was christened with the name "Night Creeper." Awesome huh? Raise your hand if you want to be me!

Grocery Stories

The grocery store isn't usually a place which makes for blog topics. But I've had a few experiences which have made pushing a cart with a janky wheel tolerable. Well more tolerable I guess. Two are recent and one I've brought up from the recesses of my brain.

Am I seeing myself 30 years in the future?
This particular shopping trip I was checking out at the counter when the bagger's name badge caught my eye. Aw, how cute. It identified him as Alex who had been working there for 1 year. It also had space for Alex to write his favorite food which was cheesecake. To which I almost wanted to say "You're precious Alex...thanks for sharing." As I turned my attention to the cashier I saw that her name was Rhonda (nice to meet you Rhonda) who had been a proud employee for 12 years (You go girl!). Then I looked to see what HER favorite food was.
Did she enjoy indulging in a nice porterhouse steak, maybe some fancy pasta dish, or take Alex's lead and point out her penchant for lemon meringue pie. No,no, and no. Rhonda chose...Vodka.

Am I seeing myself in 40 years?
On this particular excursion I was at the beer case making the all important decision: be frugal and buy a case of Keystone Light or put on my fancy pants and go with the Champaign of Beers: Miller High Life. Just as I was about to scream at the agony of my choices a lady struck up a conversation with me. "Tough to choose huh." Did she read my mind or something? Then she hulked a case of Budweiser into her cart. "This is my nerve medicine here." You said it sister. I chuckled appropriately. "But you know what?? These beers are 120 calories each!" I nodded and put on my best disgusted face. Those idiots at Anheuser Bush certainly aren't looking out for our health. Then my new friend slapped her ass and said "Haha...must be why I'm so fat!" and promptly pushed her cart off toward the cash registers.

I hope I wasn't like this 15 years ago
The day I moved into the dorm my freshman year of college my parents did the requisite grocery run to buy supplies. I'd have never made it through without all the peanut butter crackers they bought me (I lived on them my first two weeks because I was too homesick to eat normal food). As we were checking out a worn looking grandmother was tossing her shit onto the conveyor belt thingy while her equally bedraggled grandchildren sauntered up behind her. The boy (who looked somewhat like a deranged 5th grade ferret) was looking at the candy display. If you've ever been a child, you know that those displays are pretty dangerous because after being dragged through the store with your parents...you're expecting a damn packet of Chiclets at least. But this kid had his eye on a bag of Skittles, a Baby Ruth, some Tic-Tacs, and a Laffy Taffy. Greedy little bastard. His grandmother understandably said "NO" to which his head nearly exploded and/or spun around. He threw down his candy cache and screamed all turets-like: "Mother Fucker! I want some fucking candy!! Bitch!" Needless to say I assumed I was going to school in a town infested by the Children of the Corn and thus avoided the townie kids my entire 4 years.